


Take Your Pain Away

by Chiomi



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Masochism, Psychic Stiles Stilinski, Season/Series 03 Spoilers, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-19
Updated: 2014-02-22
Packaged: 2017-12-23 20:42:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/930894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chiomi/pseuds/Chiomi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles wants to be able to see what's coming, so he goes out and gets himself prescience at the nemeton. The downside is that he can't seem to see any farther into the future than Lydia, so they're still just finding bodies, and the visions themselves hurt like hell.</p><p>Derek, though, is happy to take his pain.</p><p>That brings its own set of complications.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. if you can find the time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [adigitalmagician](https://archiveofourown.org/users/adigitalmagician/gifts).



> I'm [on tumblr](uswe.tumblr.com). Thank you to AlwaysBoth and ADigitalMagician for beta services (yes, I asked ADM to read it even though it's theoretically a present).

Stiles rinses some blueberries and dumps them in a bowl and covers them in chocolate syrup. It’s fruit, it’s healthy. He manages a spoonful, barely, before his stomach reminds him that, nope, he had his meds today, and a vision on top of that, and he’s not eating anything until at least an hour after the Adderall wears off.

He sighs, and rinses his spoon, and shoves the bowl in the fridge. He’ll probably end up staying at the loft for a while. He scribbles a quick note for his dad that there are Lean Cuisines in the freezer and texts Scott and grabs his keys. He’s probably good to drive. Almost guaranteed, really. He’s only gotten three visions so far, so the chances of getting one while he’s driving, so soon after the last one, are low. Still, he’s white knuckled most of the way to Derek’s. Who lives stupidly far away, anyway, barely on the edge of the zone for Beacon Hills High.

Halfway there, he realizes with an unpleasant jolt that he has no way to explain how he knows what’s going to happen. Telling the truth isn’t an option, because he can’t tell them what he’s done. The only thing he ever plausibly does is research, so, yeah, okay. He spends the rest of the drive rationalizing that it’s technically a kind of research, so that his heart won’t skip.

“Yo,” he says when Isaac opens the door. “So, had any weird dreams recently? Symptoms of sleep apnea? We’ve got a thing and we’re probably all going to die.”

Isaac raises his eyebrows, and Stiles can already tell that he’s not taking Stiles seriously when he says, “Again?”

Stiles gets in Isaac’s space until Isaac lets him in, throws his backpack down next to the chair he’s started to think of as his. Scott’s already there, standing with his arms folded and looking like he wants to be anywhere else. Stiles flops into the chair. “I’ve been doing research, okay?”

Derek shoves his ancient MacBook at him. It always feels weirdly intimate to use someone else’s laptop, but this particular computer is usually lying around the kitchen area, tabs full of recipes and whatever Isaac’s had to look up for homework. Stiles has never brought himself to ask, and doesn’t know the way he knows some other things, but he suspects that it’s the pack laptop, and that he’s pack. Derek lurks over his shoulder as Stiles opens it up and opens more tabs that he directs to relevant information. It’s all new to him, stuff he’s not read at all, but he’s certain these are right, guided by - he opens another tab, sends it to deliberately wrong information, moves the tab to the middle of the collection. “Do you know how few people die of sleep apnea? It’s like 6% of patients over five years. That’s low, that’s ridiculously low. But we’ve had three people apparently die of it in the last month, and only one of them was even diagnosed with sleep apnea.”

Derek puts a hand on the back of Stiles’ neck, and Stiles shuts up. “Calm down,” is all he says, though, and Stiles can feel some of his general awful feeling fading. Derek’s doing the pain-suck thing, and he doesn’t mind it at all, and he’s way more effective than ibuprofen, so Stiles just enjoys the way his headache fades. “How does that make it our problem?”

Stiles scrolls down through the pages of relevant information, stopping at the first picture he comes across. “Because mysterious sleeping deaths can be caused by this thing, called an Alp in Germany and a Bahktak in Iran, and normal people can’t even see them, let alone fight them.”

He keeps reading, and Derek moves off, pacing restlessly to the kitchen counter. “How do we kill it?”

“Looks like rending and tearing’ll work fine, it’s mostly a matter of locating it and making it visible. But I don’t know how it’s choosing it’s victims - Connie the dispatcher’s daughter doesn’t have a lot in common with this guy Jefferson in the retirement home, so I don’t know how to lure it out.” He looks up from the laptop and looks at Scott and Derek. “So what do we do?”

Dereks eyebrows draw down, and Scott tries to look appropriately serious. “Find the addresses,” Derek says. “We’ll go by and try to catch a scent.”

“But - fine, yeah, okay. I’ll do that now.” He can cobble them together, probably. He’s got a good memory, and he can look through the obits for pictures for the third woman and look up her address from there.

He gets the addresses for the retirement home, grabs Connie’s address from his dad’s contact list, and starts looking up the obits. It only takes a few minutes to find the address. “Okay, so there are three. I should probably go with whoever’s going to Connie’s house, because she knows me and will actually let us in. Here’s the retirement home, and Scott or Isaac, you should go, because you’re adorable. The other house, she has a boyfriend who lives there, so you might have to talk past him or break and enter.”

Cora pushes herself off the counter. “I should go to that one, then. Peter, come with me.”

Isaac looks at Scott, then at Derek. “I’ll go with Scott. Probably better to look more harmless.”

Which is how Stiles gets stuck with Derek in the passenger seat as his vision starts going grey. If Stiles had to have his first public vision in front of anyone, he’d far rather it be Scott, who was there, at least, when they died and set things in motion. There’s no helping it, though: he pulls over. “Get out,” he snaps. He doesn’t want Derek to see this. Derek’s got his own secrets to keep, but this - it’s private. He doesn’t have enough of a harness on it for it to be predictably useful, so right now it’s just another stupid thing that he’s done.

Derek doesn’t move, just raises a sardonic eyebrow that’s only visible because of the contrast against his pale skin. Stiles’ sight is already nearly gone. He feels himself twitch involuntarily as a new scene rushes in, too much for his head, like trying to cram an IMAX screen into his eyeballs.

Scott’s asleep in his own bed and a misshapen thing sits on his chest, sucking the life out of him. The thing looks up, straight at Stiles, and grins, with far too many teeth.

It’s not supposed to see him, nothing’s supposed to see him, he’s not here.

“Seer,” it says. “I’ll eat your eyes before I steal your breath.”

Then it’s over, before Stiles even has time to formulate some kind of retort.

Derek’s hand is on his arm, and his veins are raised and black.

Stiles jerks away, and his voice comes out high and panicked. “What are you doing?”

“You were in pain. You have visions now.” It’s not a question, but Stiles wants to deny it anyway, and looks angrily out at the road.

He starts the Jeep up again and drives. “They’re useful.”

“They’re new,” Derek counters.

Stiles opens his mouth, then remembers that he doesn’t lie to Derek, and closes his mouth.

**

When they come back from the dead, Stiles can feel the darkness Deaton talked about. It’s not evil, it’s not pulling him into some dark void, it’s just - it’s a shadow. It’s a liminal thing, a mark of him as a liminal person, now that he’s been dead for magic.

He gets his dad back, stands mostly as witness to other people beating the crap out of each other, explains things again, is grounded forever, and waits another couple days for the feeling to fade.

It doesn’t, so he goes to Deaton again. He waits in the waiting room until he’s alone and Deaton is standing behind the counter, arms crossed as he meaningfully eyes the clock. “Stiles.”

Stiles stays where he is, elbows propped on his knees. “So we’ve got an active nemeton now, which I’m gathering is basically a Hellmouth. Being a druid and all, you taking trainees?”

Deaton’s face softens infinitesimally towards sympathy. “Training can take up to twenty years, Stiles, and takes a great deal of discipline.”

“I’ve been doing my research,” Stiles says, and watches Deaton’s face. He wants to have a way to fight back, a way to help, a way to do what his dad does and protect and serve his town.

“No,” he says, and there’s a sort of echoing finality to it.

It makes Stiles flush hot with rage and frustration, and his movements are jerky with it. “Fine,” he says, shoving his way to his feet. “Sorry to bother you.”

**

He researches for a couple weeks before he packs up to go to the nemeton, because the internet is full of bullshit. He’s pretty sure he knows what he’s doing, though, at least in a general sense. Lydia can tell them that someone’s about to die, can lead them to the bodies, but they don’t have anything more preventative than that, and they have no way to tell what’s coming.

And, aside from Deaton’s warnings, Stiles can feel that things are coming. He thinks Scott and Allison can, too. Scott’s dealing with alpha mojo, but he’s been antsier about training than Stiles had expected, going so far as to apologize to Derek and try to work together.

Stiles texts Scott where he’s going, because Scott understands, and won’t interfere unless he doesn’t hear from Stiles for several hours, and then he takes the various herbs and the shitty bread he’d baked himself and the beer from the fridge because it should substitute for mead as an offering.

He takes an athame from the New Age store and the lighter he demanded from Derek and Derek inexplicably handed over without arguing and some herbs he mostly got dried from Trader Joe’s and plain white candles from the Hallmark store in the mall and he puts them all in his backpack and drives out to the Preserve. He doesn’t have solid directions - no one does, not to the nemeton, because there are no marked trails. But he has a link, and a vicious belief that he will be lead straight to it. Will carries through, which is reassuring given what he’s going to do, and he’s drawn to it like a lodestone to north.

There’s new green growth from the stump of the old tree, and Stiles huffs out a breath at the sight. Cutting down the tree brings disaster, and powering it up again draws chaos, and the whole of Beacon Hills would be better off if it had never been here.

Nothing he can do about it, though, so he ignores it as he sets up his ritual circle, going to the compass points and lighting candles and chanting. He feels centred when he’s done, like after the meditation exercises one therapist suggested to help with his ADHD. He feels kind of silly, when he’s done, because he’s sitting in a circle in the middle of the woods talking to himself.

He sets out the herbs and starts the incantation and crushes them in his fist when it’s called for, and is amazed that his voice stays steady.

When it’s done, a shivery sort of weight settles on him, and Stiles can’t help but grin like a madman as he dispels the circle. This, he can do. He can choose magic, choose the supernatural: it doesn’t have to all be by birth or horrific trauma. Deaton can suck a dick, because visions are going to be way more useful than years of rote memorization.

He packs up and goes home and puts most of the magical ingredients back in the spice cabinet and the rest in his room with the books his weirder research had made him track down. He jerks off in the shower and goes to sleep and wakes, hours later, covered in cold sweat in the aftermath of his first vision.


	2. I don't have the patience

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, uh, potential triggers? Nothing spectacularly out of line with canon, details at the end.

“Things are going to be coming, because of the nemeton. We needed an edge, so I went and got one. It’s just been . . . tricky.”

“What did you see?”

Stiles stares blankly at the traffic light in front of him as it turns from amber to red. “Scott as the next target.”

Derek sucks in a breath. “It can actually go after an alpha?”

“It killed him,” Stiles says quietly, and then accelerates through the intersection. The light was probably green, anyway. They stop at the grocery store and Stiles buys some of the red velvet cookies he knows Connie likes and they drive over to her house.

Stiles is the one who knocks, and Connie looks like hell when she answers the door. “Stiles.”

He proffers the cookies. “I brought cookies. I thought I could help you organize all the casseroles. I’m familiar with the casserole problem.”

She smiles at him, wan and sad, and opens the door wider. “Come in. And you are?”

Derek shuffles in, looking smaller than usual. “Derek Hale, ma’am. I gave Stiles a ride. I’m sorry for your loss.”

Connie invites them through to the kitchen, and Stiles babbles at her as she starts making tea. Derek excuses himself to the bathroom after a couple minutes, sneaking off to check out the bedroom, Stiles presumes. By the time he comes back, the tea’s ready and Stiles has re-packed the fridge freezer like it’s a game of Mourning Tetris.

Derek looks at Stiles and nods, just slightly, and Stiles relaxes. Mission accomplished. They both drink their tea, and Stiles ends up carrying the conversation, which mostly means talking about upcoming SATs.

As soon as the tea’s gone, they start making their excuses, and then they’re out the door.

“What did you smell?” Stiles demands as soon as the door is closed.

“I’ll be able to track it,” Derek says grimly.

“Good. Back to the loft, then, until everyone else reports in?”

“Yes. And you can explain what you did so we can figure out how to undo it.”

Stiles pauses, then walks faster to get to the Jeep, because this is a conversation they’re having where it won’t be overheard. He closes his door harder than necessary. “What do you mean, undo it?”

“It hurts you,” Derek says, like that’s an argument all by itself.

Stiles spreads his fingers and jerks his head, demanding an expansion of the argument. “And? You guys get eviscerated pretty often to try to keep everyone safe. A headache, particularly for an actually useful thing that means that you guys might not get eviscerated as much? Totally worth it.”

There’s a pause, long enough that Stiles starts the damn Jeep and drives. It’s never particularly easy to talk in the Jeep, but it’s even easier to pretend that he can’t hear someone trying to talk over it. Derek knows this by now, but Stiles can still feel him glaring broodily the whole way back to the loft.

“It’s not useful,” Derek says as soon as the Jeep is stopped.

“Screw you, too,” Stiles says. “That was just my fourth vision, and the timeline is getting better.”

“But-”

“No,” Stiles says firmly, and gets out of the Jeep.

Derek follows him, unlocks the door, and keeps arguing, “You’re putting yourself in pain unnecessarily. We don’t need it.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, has the death rate in Beacon Hills suddenly dropped to reasonable levels? I was unaware, because I’ve been distracted by the jerk stealing people’s breath.”

Derek crowds him against the elevator door, and Stiles lets him. Derek’s still a hairsbreadth taller than him, and a hell of a lot broader and more muscled on top of the superpowers. He looms like a champ.

Stiles jerks his chin up at him, because, well, for one Derek should know that physical intimidation has never been effective on Stiles, and also because Stiles is not going to be talked out of this. He worked for this power, and he’s not giving it up. The elevator arrives with a ding, and the space opens behind him. It’s not technically retreat if it’s a step towards their destination, Stiles tells himself as he punches the button.

“What’d you guys find?” Scott asks anxiously when they get in.

That they were back first isn’t precisely the most surprising thing: their destination was closer from the loft. “Derek found a scent, and we’re pretty sure it can target supernatural creatures, so you should track it ASAP.”

“Stiles gets visions,” Derek interjects before Stiles can get the plan to save the town rolling.

Stiles doesn’t even think about it, just whirls and punches Derek on the jaw. Derek’s head turns with the force of the blow, but he doesn’t even step back, just looks back at Stiles and quirks an eyebrow, like ‘you gonna do that again?’ and Stiles snarls at him. Stupid werewolves. His hand hurts like a bitch.

He knows before he turns back that Scott and Isaac will be staring at him in shock, and he’s not disappointed. Derek puts a hand on his shoulder and shoves him towards his chair again, and some of the pain leaches from his hand. It’s more than Stiles deserves, and he feels cantankerous with it. He huffs out an angry breath. “Scott, it’s gonna target you next.”

Scott furrows his brow. “Okay? It’s not like that’ll be a problem. As soon as I know it’s there, I just rip it in half, problem solved.”

“Yeah, just one problem, Scotty - you won’t see it until you’re almost dead. It’s not exactly walking in wearing a sign around its neck.” Stiles will forever be grateful that Scott is willing to not-talk about the things Stiles doesn’t want to talk about. “It’s probably better if you don’t sleep alone.”

Cora and Peter come in. Derek crosses his arms and looks at them. “Find anything?”

Cora frowns, then looks between Derek and Stiles, and frowns some more. “The scent was almost faded - actually I’m not sure if it was whatever we’re looking for or just a different person who visited. Any luck for you guys?”

“We didn’t find anything,” Isaac says, “but that’s okay, since Derek did, and Scott’s gonna be the next target.”

She raises a very Hale eyebrow. “And how do we know that?”

“Not important!” Stiles says.

“Dumbass here got visions,” Derek says, and Peter and Cora both snap their full attention to Stiles.

Which, shit. He still doesn’t want to talk about it at all, and now the Hales’ reactions have got Isaac and Scott more interested. Stiles sinks down further in the chair. “It’s fine. Look, can we focus on the thing where something wants to kill Scott, please?”

Peter smiles, and goddammit now he definitely needs to talk to Derek more about this. “Of course, Seer. The easiest solution is just to make sure Scott doesn’t sleep alone, isn’t it?”

Stiles doesn’t even bother hiding his disgust: Peter knows he hates him. The fact that he used the same language as the murderous monster of the month is basically par for the course. “So, Scott, pizza and video games? We can pretend it’s middle school and not murder watch.”

“Do it here,” Derek says.

“Natch; doesn’t match the vision.”

“Uh, since I died, isn’t it better if it doesn’t match?”

“If too much changes, the thing might not show up at all, and then someone else might die.”

“We could join you,” Peter says, smooth as oil.

Derek gives him a hard look, then switches it to Scott. “I should probably be there, since I got the scent, but if you don’t want to stay here -”

“You, Stiles, and Isaac can come over, I guess. We’ll play Mario Party.”

Stiles groans dramatically. “Scott, the idea is that people _don’t_ get violently murdered.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stiles punches Derek in the face for saying something Stiles didn't want him to.


	3. I will wait for you

They don’t actually murder each other over Mario Party. It’s not even a near thing: Derek refuses to play, and Isaac’s adorably bad at it. When Scott’s oblivious enough to ask, Isaac mentions that he wasn’t allowed to have video games with such obviously forced lightness that Stiles kind of wants to die. The whole traumatic abuse thing is super awkward.

When it hits midnight, Derek starts making judgmental eyebrows at them, and Stiles sighs and pauses the game, turns off the console. “We should sleep. This thing doesn’t attack when people are awake, so if we’re going to catch it, we should go to bed.”

Scott looks concerned and brave, which is sort of his default True Alpha expression. Stiles shoves the side of his head. “Go brush your teeth.”

They end up with Stiles and Scott and Isaac all piled too-warm and be-elbowed on the bed, Derek in the chair. It takes a while for Stiles to fall asleep, but it usually does, these days. Eventually, Scott kicks him in the shin and flops a warm arm over his stomach. That’s what sends him off to sleep, because Scott radiates comfort as well as warmth.

*

Stiles wakes up because something feels wrong; a pressure inside his head. There’s a shadow over Scott - Scott who’s breathing shallowly. Stiles is abruptly wide awake and viciously adrenalized. He reaches for whatever’s causing the pressure, and the shadow resolves more clearly. “Shit! Guys, guys, it’s here!”

He dives for it, and his arm passes sort of sludgily through - it’s barely corporeal, and the resistance fades as he loses concentration.

Derek’s up, eyes vicious blue in the dark. “The alp?”

“Fuckdamnit!” Stiles concentrates, tries to ignore the rising chaos of Derek looking for something to hit and Isaac scrambling to panicked awareness. Scott’s still deep asleep. Stiles focuses hard, an uncomfortable mental stretch and one he’s not really built for, and the Alp fades back in.

It cackles in his face. “Seer.”

With a wrench and a writhe, it scratches his face, and Stiles falls back in surprised pain. It makes a break for it through Scott’s open window, and Stiles realizes he’s only going to have this one chance. “Go! You’ll be able to see it.”

He flings out an arm, pointing, and throws his will with it. Derek dives snarling through the window, Isaac gangling behind him.

Scott takes in a deep breath, loud in the sudden quiet.

“Hey, hey buddy, wake up. You still alive?” Stiles shakes his shoulder. All he wants right now is to not have been too late. What fucking use is vision if Scott’s permanently damaged?

Scott rears up, half-shifted, his eyes red, and gives Stiles his second clawing of the night. Hot pain rakes up his arm, and Stiles falls back. He’s crouched half-over Scott, dripping blood on him from his face and now his arm.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry.”

Moving carefully, Stiles backs up and lays down, trying not to drip too much on the bed. “You’re okay, though?”

“You’re bleeding, Stiles. I’m gonna go get the first aid kit.” Scott bounds up, then wobbles.

“Dude,” Stiles says, starting to reach for Scott.

Scott steadies himself on the wall, which is just as well, because Stiles hurts enough that moving is unfun. “No, I’m fine.” He makes his way out of the room moving human speed, and Stiles tries not to bleed too much on the bedspread.

The McCall first aid kit is, of course, fairly industrial, and Scott lugs the whole big thing back from the bathroom. Setting it on the bed, Scott peers at Stiles’ face first. “It missed your eye, right?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. He’s pretty sure, at least. His whole face kind of hurts, and blood’s starting to trickle over his lower eyelid towards his eye, but he’s pretty sure the scratch is mostly the bridge of his nose and his cheek.

Scott patches him up with the smooth competence of someone who’s had to do this too much. Probably Stiles should go to the hospital, get his face stitched, but - yeah, no. When Scott gets back from putting it away, Stiles flails his good arm at him. “I demand wolfy morphine.”

Half-smiling, Scott flops on the bed next to Stiles. “Think they’re gonna get it?” He puts a hand on Stiles’ arm, and some of the throbbing pain of not one but two supernatural creatures taking swings at him starts to trickle away.

“They’ll be able to see it, at least? I don’t think Alp’s are supposed to be super-fast. If they don’t we’re kinda screwed.” They lay there in silence.

Ten minutes tick by achingly. Scott takes his hand off Stiles’ arm, looking miserable and guilty. “I’m sorry, can I take a break? I know it’s - I just can’t concentrate through the pain right now.”

It takes half a moment, but then Stiles nearly recoils. “It hurts when you do it?”

“Well, yeah.” Scott blinks at him. “I’m taking your pain. There’s not, like, any scale difference.” Scott shakes out his hand and reaches for Stiles again.

Stiles shrinks back. “No, it’s fine. I can just take ibuprofen.”

“No, dude, I can, just gimme a minute.” Scott flexes his fingers, like he’s dispelling a cramp.

It hurts. Not just his arm, and his face, but the fact that he’s hurt Scott, and that he’s been hurting Derek for - for ages, apparently. He thinks about the times Derek has just taken his pain, casually and unprompted and continuously, at times. The room spins, or maybe just his stomach. “Do you know if it’s different for born wolves?”

“No - I don’t know. Deaton’s the one who showed me, not Derek. It’s cool with animals, because they don’t process pain in the same way. And, like, with people I can do it, and when it’s just taking it and stopping, there’s kind of an endorphin rush when it’s over?”

Scott reaches for Stiles again, and Stiles only barely catches the motion and jerks out of the way. “No, seriously, it’s fine. I’m just a wimp.”

Scott lets him go, which means it definitely hurt a lot. Stiles’ encroaching panic attack stalks closer, and he breathes carefully. Fucking Derek Hale does not get to spark a panic attack.

Isaac comes crawling through the window. “We got it!”

“Where’s Derek?” Stiles demands before he can think better of it.

Isaac runs his fingers through his curls and tries to lounge artfully against the window. “He got more torn up, so he went to the loft.”

He sits up, past pretending he’s not an idiot. “How torn up?”

Isaac looks at him like he’s an crazy. “We’re werewolves, Stiles. It doesn’t matter.”

Scott smiles secretively. “Is the supernatural crisis over, then?”

“Looks like,” Isaac says, and looks at Stiles. “We good?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, but he’s distracted. He passes a hand over his mouth.

“Go,” Scott says.

Stiles could argue his intent, but that’d be stupid. He shoves his shoes on and heads for the door. “Later.”

Someone really should check on him, Stiles rationalizes as he starts the Jeep. And then, if he doesn’t have too many holes in him, rip him a new one for being a self-flagellating bastard and using Stiles as the flail. The drive sends jolts of pain up Stiles’ arm, but that doesn’t matter right now. At least he’s not bleeding on the Jeep.

Stiles parks sloppily across two - okay, maybe three - spaces in Derek’s parking lot, and punches the buttons on the elevator angrily.

Derek’s waiting at the door when the elevator opens, and he’s shirtless and not bleeding anymore.

Stiles stalks towards him until they’re toe to toe, and hisses, “I should punch you in your stupid masochistic face, but I won’t give you the satisfaction.”

Derek’s face closes off like shutters slammed shut, and he steps back to let Stiles into his home. “You’re hurt,” he says.

“Fuck you.” He takes the couch, sprawls out all over it and rests his aching head on the arm. There’s no sign of Peter or Cora. “Why would you do that when all it does is hurt you?”

Derek doesn’t answer. He closes the door and walks to the kitchen area. Stiles can hear doors open and close, hears the sink run. It’s tempting to fill the silence with his rage, but everything feels too complicated for that, and he doesn’t know how to start.

Derek puts a glass of water on the table, and a saucer with two pills in it. He sits in Stiles’ usual chair and rests his elbows on his knees, hands tucked against each other like he’s resisting reaching out. “It’s the only thing I can do for you.”

Turning his head is painful, but Stiles still scrunches around to he can fully see Derek. “Are you actually delusional? Have you missed the thing where our life-saving ledger is totally even, and all of us do everything we can to make sure we get out in one piece? You hurting yourself so I don’t have to spend money on over-the-counter pain meds doesn’t help us survive better.”

Derek beetles his eyebrows and mutters, “Take your stupid pills.”

Stiles rolls upright and swallows the pills with the water. His dad would disapprove of him taking any kind of unmarked pill from anyone but a doctor, but, well, Derek. His arm is being annoying and painful, and he tucks it close against his side as he eyes Derek.

He’s still shirtless, which is kind of cheating, especially when he’s not even covered in blood. He’s just wearing soft-looking sweatpants. His bare toes are curled in protectively. Stiles hates everything about him, especially the way his shoulders are rounded like he’s ashamed of himself. “You meant for me in particular, not the plural ‘you.’”

“It’s not like I don’t deserve -”

“Nope! Nope, we are backing up from the endless pit of trauma and talking more about how you wanted to do something nice for me in particular.”

Derek looks up at him, still uncomfortable and guilty, but at least now Stiles gets to look at his stupidly perfect eyes. “I didn’t want to talk about this until next October.”

Stiles heart starts thumping wildly, and he knows Derek can hear it. It’s not embarrassing, though, or not exactly: Derek put himself out there first. He takes another sip of his water. “Okay. We can - I can - October is fine.” He hates that he’s tripping over his words already, when it’s the next part that’s got him in knots. “But then can we talk about, uh, about the part where you liked it? Not just - not the helping part, and not the fucked up penance part.” He’s more assured, because he knows he’s right, and Derek hasn’t cut him off yet. “After my birthday, can we talk about how you liked that it hurt?”

Something in Derek’s gone loose; there’s a kind of give in his posture that’s new and strange but still infinitely better than his hunched up shame. “Yeah.”

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [i touch you, but it starts to hurt](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3529505) by [orphan_account](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account)




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